


propriety

by ToAStranger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha Tom Riddle, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Breeding Kink, Knotting, M/M, Omega Harry Potter, Somewhat Good Voldemort (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:01:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27342427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: The absolute, absurd relief he feels upon seeing Harry enter the ballroom is practically it's very own brand of illicit potion-- even if he's being escorted on his godfather's arm.It nearly has him stepping forward, stepping away, from the insipid sycophants talking his ear off. Only propriety stops him.Just the sight of him, in the robes Voldemort sent, is enough to relieve him of the pounding headache he's had since arriving. And, as he draws nearer, the scent of him adds to the soothing balm of his presence."Good evening, my Lord." Harry says.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 77
Kudos: 2136





	propriety

**Author's Note:**

> So, I opened my inbox up to prompts on Halloween as a special treat to my followers over there-- and uhhhhh. I think my "slow burn frustration" found a pretty good outlet, all things considered.
> 
> This prompt got out of hand, is what I'm trying to say. I also apologize for absolutely nothing-- including, but not limited to, vagueing my world building.

The absolute, absurd relief he feels upon seeing Harry enter the ballroom is practically it's very own brand of illicit potion-- even if he's being escorted on his godfather's arm.

It nearly has him stepping forward, stepping away, from the insipid sycophants talking his ear off. Only propriety stops him.

Just the sight of him, in the robes Voldemort sent, is enough to relieve him of the pounding headache he's had since arriving. And, as he draws nearer, the scent of him adds to the soothing balm of his presence.

"Good evening, my Lord." Harry says, polite and proper as he always is in public, with a dip of his head-- though, Voldemort can see the mischief in his eyes.

It reminds him, distantly, of Harry's debut at the Ministry gala nearly a year previous. Of the demure way Harry had accepted his approach-- his interest-- and blushed at every innuendo, every touch. Of the way he'd, seemingly reluctantly, let Voldemort seduce him into bed that same evening. Of the way he'd looked at Voldemort after, with a knowing and startlingly green gaze, still covered in sweat and slick and spunk as he said, _"well, that was fun"_ before climbing out of Voldemort's bed-- and Voldemort's life.

After a handful of months of only seeing the young man in passing-- at the Ministry, at other functions where their social circles intersected-- it was after a Wizengamot session that he finally caught him. A Wizengamot session where the young omega, now Lord Potter, made quite the splash with his new proposal about education reform. When Voldemort stopped him outside the chambers, more than suspicious of his motives, Harry had been surprised-- earnestly so-- and said as much.

"I believed our liaison to be over," Harry had said, plucking at his formal robes like he was unused to wearing them, nose wrinkling up like he either wasn't overly fond of speaking this way or wasn't very happy to be speaking to Voldemort. "I'm not an omega in particular want or need of an alpha-- and you. Well, my Lord, I didn't believe you were the type to attach yourself to a single omega. Considering the surplus of lovers, omega and beta alike, you've left in your wake."

"I see," Voldemort had said-- though, really, he'd been quite affronted, if he were being honest.

"Oh, you do? Brilliant." Harry replied, flashing him a grin, already moving to leave, already dropping the prim and proper tone he'd affected for their conversation. "If that's all, then."

And then he'd actually left. Without even waiting for Voldemort's permission. As though he really didn't care much for Voldemort's permission at all-- or his standing as Lord and Minister, or as the alpha that had bedded him so thoroughly that he'd _cried_.

Worse, when Voldemort had given in to the nagging frustration and curiosity of it all, he'd found that the man had left him so quickly, standing like a fool in his own Ministry, in order to go play _quidditch_.

It had astounded him about as much as Harry's nonchalant dismissal the night he'd bedded the omega had. For what sane omega-- no, regardless of gender, what sane _wizard_ would be so disinterested in the ruler of wizarding Britain that they would so brazenly display their lack of care quite so unashamedly? And why had he affected such a timid, demure manner that first night of their meeting of he was anything but?

And Harry Potter certainly _was_ anything but timid and demure.

Voldemort learned that over the next weeks at the Ministry, as Lord Potter came in wielding not only his own seats and votes, but that of his godfather's, with a gaggle of fresh faces guiding his hand. A muggleborn witch, far too bright for her age; the youngest son of the Weasley and Prewitt lines always muttering strategy in his ear; the Longbottom and Lovegood heirs touting endorsements in every article on every project Harry might even glance at favorably; even the Malfoy heir, Lucius' little brat, seemed to hang on at any given chance when Harry made himself known at events.

There had even been a scandal, in the spring, between Harry and _another omega._ Voldemort had seen the pictures, plastered all over the Daily Prophet, of the quidditch star, Ginevra Weasley, swooping down to kiss Harry during her victory lap, still balanced on her broom.

But it wasn't until summer, a month after Harry's paramour was "caught out" with another accomplished muggleborn-- an artist, Voldemort thought, a beta-- and Harry arrived for the summer equinox on Draco Malfoy's arm with a smile on his face, that Voldemort approached him again. It was also the night that their courtship began.

It was on the balcony, in the light of a half moon, on the shortest evening of the year. He'd seen Harry excuse himself ten minutes before, and had followed. Followed, and then Voldemort had lingered in the doorway for a long moment, admiring the vision Harry made in the soft golds and whites and cremes of his robes, with a corona of jasmine and baby's breath resting on the mess of his curls.

"My parents died in the rebellion against you, you know." Harry had said, face tipped upward toward the starlight, and Voldemort wondered what gave him away-- the scent of his blatant, unabashed arousal, or the prominent flare of his magic.

"I'm aware," Voldemort said, drawing closer, pulled in by the brief glance Harry offers him over his shoulder. "I keep track of all the children whose parents opposed me."

Harry hummed. "And do you bed them all?"

"No," Voldemort breathed, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to _not_ press along Harry's back, to let his hands find a home at his waist, to press his nose in behind his ear. "Do you often bed your parents' killers?"

Harry snorted, indelicate and brash, as he usually reserved for when one of the decrepit idiots in the Wizengamot have said something particularly borish-- or, as Voldemort had privately noticed during his _observations,_ whenever he wasn't playing Lord Potter and instead let himself shine as the powerful, uncouth youth he really was. "My parents died during the Rebounding-- which I think you know. Considering you've been digging into my history and having me followed about since we slept together. If the Order of the Phoenix had known all it would take to grab your attention was a pretty, willing omega snubbing you the moment your knot went down, I'm sure the world would be a far different place."

Voldemort had gone still, at that. Harry was placid, at ease in Voldemort's hold, even as his grip shifted to press at Harry's middle to bring him completely flush against Voldemort's chest. Even as Voldemort curled the other, loosely, at his throat.

"Is that what this is? Are you my very own honeypot?" Voldemort asked.

Harry had laughed, the vibrations thrumming against Voldemort's fingertips. "No, not at all. I fully plan to destroy you legally, in plain view of all to see, on the Wizengamot floor."

"You think you can?"

"You've a rat in your ranks," Harry had told him, breathlessly and delightedly, and Voldemort had never been more aroused in his considerably long life. "A few, actually."

Jerking Harry back against him, impossibly closer, he'd let his arousal be known. As if Harry hadn't scented it on him already.

"And sleeping with me?" he'd asked.

"Well," Harry said, taking the hand on his belly and guiding it down, down, _down_ \-- "like I said. That was just _fun_."

Harry hadn’t gone home with the Malfoy heir that night. And in the morning, he'd taken one look at the ring Voldemort tried to offer him-- the Gaunt ring, his family ring, the first step in courtship-- and laughed in his face.

He's wearing it, now, though.

It had taken months, yes, and a number of compromises he never imagined himself making for a single person other than himself, but Harry is wearing it. That, and the robes he'd had tailored to compliment his own, in emeralds and silvers-- a bold statement as loud as any other as to what they intended with one another.

And so fitting a gift on the eve of the New Year.

"A bit formal," Voldemort chides, but thinks that was what Harry was aiming for with his greeting, so he steps away from whoever it is that kept insisting on talking his ear off in order to bow and take Harry's hand in his, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "Considering."

"Well, I'd hate to be caught being too formal," Harry says, eyes bright, the color of them making his robes seem pale in comparison.

It's a lie, of course. Harry, without doubt, despises much of the social necessities of being a Lord and being an omega in the public eye.

Voldemort would know. He's caught him wolfing down muggle brand cereal often enough, complaining that: _"wizards can't make Coco Puffs, you prat."_

Voldemort, somehow, found it endearing. Likely due to Harry's early childhood-- something only mentioned once and then never again-- and the lack of muggle foods he'd received despite living with them.

"I'm sure," Voldemort mutters, holding Harry's gaze as he straightens back out.

And Harry-- Harry doesn't miss a thing.

He beams at the small gathering Voldemort had been playing host to, and links his arm into the crook of Voldemort's elbow. Presses in at his side. Bats his eyes, like the picture of a perfect omega.

"You don't mind if I steal my intended for a dance, do you, gentlemen?"

He hardly waits for permission. As always, Harry simply takes what he wants.

It isn't until they're on the dance floor, far away from the whispers, but not from the greedy eyes of the crowd, that Voldemort even relaxes an _inch_. His hand finds the small of Harry's back, and if they'd been alone, he might draw him even closer; propriety keeps him in check.

"Bad day?" Harry asks, letting Voldemort sweep him into graceful motion.

"You are, perhaps, the only thing keeping me sane, right now." Voldemort replies.

Harry makes a soft sound; the hand at Voldemort's shoulder shifts, dragging up to curl over his nape, fingertips sinking into the short hair at the back of his head. "We could always play hooky. Go back to my flat."

"Tempting," Voldemort nods. "More tempting, if we go back to mine."

Harry gives him a dirty glare that anyone else might be cursed for. "I'm not moving in with you."

"So you've said," Voldemort says, leaning in, dragging his nose against Harry's temple. "Perhaps I just want you in my bed."

He can scent the spike in Harry's pheromones. Can practically taste the want on him.

"Oh," Harry says, then huffs out a laugh against his cheek. "You're going into rut, soon."

Voldemort blinks, jerking back to peer down at him. "I haven't had a rut since I was an adolescent."

"You haven't had an omega to spend it with, either." Harry says with a roll of his eyes, tone dry. "Perhaps your body is telling you something."

Voldemort's eyes narrow, and his earlier sense of propriety disintegrates. Dragging Harry flush to his chest, Voldemort lifts a brow.

"Are you saying you think I want to _breed_ you, Harry?"

It earns him a genuine blush. Harry's cheeks growing the ruddy color Voldemort usually only sees when he's angry-- or when he's mindless and locked around Voldemort's knot.

It even earns him a delightful little shudder.

" _Oh_ ," Voldemort says, voice low, arousal licking up his spine as Harry's eyes dilate. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Or do you just like hearing it?"

At the catch in Harry's breath, Voldemort hums.

"Have you imagined it, Harry? Spending my rut, or perhaps even your heat, with me? Being knotted, over and over, for days. Being taken, being filled, until you're _heavy_ with it?" Voldemort savors the steady hitch in Harry's breathing, in the avid way he's staring up at Voldemort like he'd apparate them away right then and there if he could get away with it, in the way his scent has gone so deep and sweet.

"Voldemort," Harry says his name, a touch of warning in his voice, and Voldemort wants him _gasping_ it until his voice gives out.

Grinning, Voldemort leans back in, lips dragging at his cheek before settling before Harry's ear. "Are you already wet for me, darling?"

Nails dig in, blunt, at the base of Voldemort's skull. Going up onto his toes, Harry hisses his reply.

"Get me home, right now, or I'll leave and take care of this myself."

They will undoubtedly make the papers tomorrow. Voldemort can't really bring himself to care.

Making excuses is easy. They turn the circuit, make the rounds, and depart separately. Voldemort on his own. Harry with his godfather.

He can only imagine the conversation between the two of them as they left. Sirius Black is not overly fond of him.

Though, considering he's pretty sure they'd both likely burn the world down if Harry Potter only asked, they get along well enough.

When he apparates back to his home, Harry is waiting for him by the door. They don't get much further than that.

Voldemort ends up pinning Harry back against it, the moment they're inside, and Harry lets himself be scooped up into his arms. Their kisses are open-mouthed, hungry-- and while Voldemort is shoving Harry's robes up to his hips and groaning when he finds Harry bare and soaked beneath the soft material, Harry is fishing a hand between them to get Voldemort free of his trousers. Then, he's whining against Voldemort's mouth, and guiding Voldemort's cock toward the warm center between the curves of his bottom.

With a shift of weight and a sharp thrust, Voldemort is driving into him. Is catching Harry's sharp cry on his tongue. Is already rutting and fucking up into him before Harry can properly catch his breath.

Tossing his head back against the door, Harry braces a hand behind him, giving himself the leverage to meet Voldemort thrust for thrust as he wraps his legs around Voldemort's waist and his thighs flex. He's hot and wet and _exquisite_. Voldemort will never let him go.

Hands on his hips, Voldemort takes him hard and fast. Until Harry's jaw is slack as he pants. Until there's that familiar sheen in his eyes-- _bliss_ , raw and unfettered-- as they roll back. As Harry moans and gasps and scrambles at his shoulder.

"Oh-- _oh, fuck--_ oh, _Merlin_ , Voldemort," Harry keens, straining against him. "Don't stop. Don't--"

Gods, Harry is gorgeous when he comes. As he bites his lip and muffles his short cry. As he bucks and rides through it until he's quaking. As he spoils his pretty new robes with his release, and gushes around Voldemort's cock. Voldemort will never grow tired of it.

Harry's kisses grow sloppy, then. His hands frame Voldemort's face, thumbs brushing sweetly, back and forth, over the high lines of his cheekbones.

"Don't knot me, here," Harry mumbles against his lips.

Apparating from the foyer to his bedroom is an easy decision, then. Even if his wards give a warning groan.

They collapse into Voldemort's bed. He pulls out long enough to muscle Harry over onto his stomach. He'd rather see his face, but he has a feeling this is not their usual tryst-- has a feeling they'll have to make due with whatever position they get locked in for much longer than usual.

Hauling Harry up by the hips, he sinks back in with a grunt. Harry muffles an animal, guttural noise against the sheets and _spasms_.

There's slick dripping down his thighs. The obscene sight of Harry spread around the considerable girth and length of his dick.

Voldemort feels feverish.

Shoving Harry's robes up his back, Voldemort curves over him, kissing up his spine as he sets a brutal, harsh rhythm. Harry's crying out, each time he drives in, and Voldemort wants to _hear it._

Threading his fingers into Harry's hair, Voldemort pulls. Angles his head back and bares Harry's throat. Presses his mouth to that bare, unblemished, unclaimed skin and moans.

"Voldemort--" Harry gasps, clutching at the sheets, the bed jolting beneath them. "Ah, _Tom_ , please-- _please, please--"_

"Say it," Voldemort says, almost growling, teeth a sharp warning at his bonding gland. "Say you want it, Harry."

"Knot me," Harry breathes, panting, so eager and wicked and lovely. " _Breed me, Tom, please."_

It's all he needs apparently. Usually, Voldemort enjoys lasting much longer. Enjoys stringing Harry out to his wits end.

But he's falling over the edge. He's driving in harder, faster, his knot already swelling at the base-- catching on Harry's rim, making Harry sob-- and as he buries himself one last time into the perfect heat of Harry's body, as Harry clamps down around his knot to milk him dry, as he groans low and long against Harry's throat, he comes.

Harry goes voiceless, breathless, as he does. Then sobs and seizes up as he comes again, losing himself in the intensity that they've discovered overcomes him when he orgasms on Voldemort's knot.

Resting against Harry's back, cock still throbbing inside of Harry, still sending shock after shock along his nerve endings as he spills and spills and _spills_ his release into the heat of Harry's body, Voldemort pants.

Harry is slurring a string of curses against the bed.

Is pressing a hand to his belly, low, just below his navel. As if Voldemort is too much.

Is spasming and giving little, helpless rolls of his hips. Is clenching and twitching around him. As if he wants Voldemort to _keep coming._

"Keep doing that, darling," Voldemort warns after a long moment of savoring the aftershocks. "And we won't have to wait until my rut to pump you full."

Harry chokes on a whine and goes still.

Groaning around a laugh, Voldemort kisses his shoulder. "You're perfect."

"Well, I should hope you think so," Harry grumbles, twisting his head over to rest his cheek against the comforter, meeting Voldemort's gaze with heavy, wanting eyes. "You _are_ trying to marry me. And, apparently, knock me up."

Voldemort hums, grinding his hips forward just to watch Harry's eyes flutter and his lips part. "Yes," Voldemort says. "I am."

And, honestly, he doesn't mind which happens first. Propriety be damned.


End file.
